


Doctor I'm In Trouble

by John_Bender



Series: Unsquare Dance [3]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Bender/pseuds/John_Bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>´“Thanks for the encouraging reaction.” Koscheis is huddled up on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around the knees, while the Doctor busies himself with the upset furniture. “It’s not you, anyways. It’s that face you’re wearing. I so wanna throttle that guy to a slow and painful death.”`</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor I'm In Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> * The Master has an allergic reaction to the Doctor's return to his tenth apparition.

*********

“Doctor I’m in trouble.

“Well goodness gracious me.”

“For every time a certain man is standing next to me, a flush comes to my face and my pulse begins to race. It goes boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boom. Boody boom boody-boom boody-boom-boom-boom.”

“Oh!”

“Boom boody-boom bood-boom boody-boom.”

“Goodness gracious...” The Doctor discards his Russian edition of Crime And Punishment on the antique side table, leans forward in the leather fauteuil and frowns at Koschei, who’s sprawled out over the matching sofa. 

“You still hearing those darned drums?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The drums. Are you hearing drums? Pulse-synchronised ear noises? Any other throbbing? Perhaps in your noggin?

“None whatsoever,” Koschei snarls. Then he heaves a sigh and taps his forehead. “At least not up here.”

“Then where? The liver? The stomach? The spleen? The spine?”

“Further south.”

“Colon?”

“Further still.”

“Hip? Thigh? Knee? Shin? Ankle? Heel? Or no, hang on, it’s your toe. You’ve bumped your toe, right?”

Koschei rolls his eyes before casting them down with a pointed “No.”

“Where else then? Show me,” the Doctor shouts, already irritated at a puzzle that takes him more than three seconds to solve.

“I am showing you, you moron! In fact, I’m staring right at it!”

The Doctor follows the equally irritated glare to the pants he’s clad Koschei in – and still finds himself at a loss. 

“What? Your trousers are throbbing? I mean, yes, it’s sentient silk but I doubt it can think of anything other than its fall of the folds and maybe-“

Koschei growls, grabs the Doctor’s hand and presses it against a rock-hard cock.

The Doctor howls, yanks his hand back and topples over, taking the fauteuil and the table down with him onto the rock-hard mosaic tiles. 

Apparently the Tardis was on a bit of a vintage trip during her last refurbishing of the library...

***

“Thanks for the encouraging reaction.” Koscheis is huddled up on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around the knees, while the Doctor busies himself with the upset furniture. “It’s not you, anyways. It’s that face you’re wearing. I so wanna throttle that guy to a slow and painful death.”

The Doctor pauses in heaving up the table. “Oh...”

Koschei’s next sigh is slow and painful as well. “And yet I think I couldn’t. I can’t, for the life of me, picture a universe without him in it. I think, when push comes to shove, I’d rather...” he gives an incredulous snort, “...die for him.” He makes another grab at the Doctor’s hand and the table barely manages to cling to their fingertips. “What kind of man is he, to create this allergy?” He is wide eyed and trembling and when he continues “Doctor, please, you have to tell me,” it’s with so poorly disguised hysteria that the table decides to rather crash back to the floor than get involved in this bloody mess.

So it looks on, with an indifference only quality woodwork can muster, as the Doctor kneels, cradles Koschei’s cheek and says “All in due time. It wouldn’t make much sense for me to recount you your biography and you listening to it like to a bedtime story, would it?” 

What he doesn’t say, the table notices, is that it’s the story nightmares are made of. 

“You have to be patient, wait until you work it out yourself.” 

´Or more like the bits and pieces you want him to work out`, the table comments, non-involvement and indifference be damned. 

But because it’s an offshoot of the Tardis it understands the answer only too well. There’s not much to misunderstand about a heartfelt telepathic ´Shut up!`

So that’s what both the table and the Tardis do while Koschei whines “It’s just, ever since you started looking like this I’ve been running around with a raging boner!” 

And while the Doctor promises “I’ll get rid of that look asap, ok?”

Even though they know full well that this isn’t half as much about looks as the stupid biological life forms think. 

And the Tardis can’t help wondering when precisely she’s decided to let both of them work it out themselves.

Because neither ever listens to her bedtime stories, anyways.


End file.
